Highlights
All-time high American Robin numbers (3,100), Eastern Phoebe, Red Crossbill, Golden Eagle
At the end of Week 2, the species total for 2024 stands at 56, slightly ahead of last year
New all-time for January: Green-winged Teal, Peregrine Falcon, Eastern Phoebe, Red Crossbill
With a first January record, the phoebe has now been recorded in every month of the year. Earliest spring arrivals are last week of February, and last migrants are second week of November. Prior winter records have been in the last two months of December.
Log
Jan. 8 (Mon). AM: 12 spp. (balcony, 40 min).
Jan 11 (Thurs). AM: 13 spp. (2.5-mi., 1-hr hike)
Jan 12 (Fri). AM: 14 spp. (balcony, 75 min)
Jan 13 (Sat). AM: 29 spp. (4-mi., 3-hr hike)
Jan 14 (Sun). AM: 14 spp. (1-mi., 1-hr hike)
Deep lavender sky on Monday, clear with a crescent moon behind Sapsucker Ridge, and Venus hanging above. First out are Rock Pigeons, 23 of them, careering the wrong direction, evasive maneuvers. Nothing goes after them, so they spiral up and out of town. Their movement seems to have inspired a European Starling, way too early, to fly up to them for a bit, but it soon drops back to earth.
The first Bald Eagle of 2024 heads straight over me, going east, downriver, at around 7:32 AM. As I watch it disappear into the dawn sky, I become aware of robin clouds. Hundreds of American Robins are flying north on the far side of the Gap, almost a half hour earlier than yesterday’s flight, and far more. The flock peters out after ten minutes, and I’ve counted over three thousand, by far the all-time high count for Blair County. I suppose many more went past before I happened to look out that direction with binoculars, because they were entirely invisible to the naked eye.
At six minutes to eight, an eagle-sized raptor comes into view from beyond the towers, gliding resolutely southwest along the flight path. As it passes near to me and through the Gap, the underwing pattern of a Golden Eagle catches the light. The southward migration continues.
The river rises to the next snowstorm on Wednesday, a few more inches but still in the thirties, so the melting is rapid. In the thick dump of morning snow, only Rock Pigeons are tough enough to be flying about town.
Trapped
On Thursday, Paola and I slog through inches of slushy snow to check the pond. Last year’s train-hit deer carcass has mostly disappeared, its head under inches of accumulation.
At the far end, ten Mallards dabble about, accompanied by the Green-winged Teal. Our luck turns as the third train in half an hour slows to a stop, blocking the egress to our car. Under tight schedules, we head back toward the valley to the end of beast, rewarded by a Sharp-shinned Hawk flying from tree to tree ahead of us. The other side of the tracks here is nothing but a steep slope of rip-rap, thankfully made transitable by two layers of crusty, slushy slow. We are exhausted by the time we make it back.
Finch Bonds
Friday’s a balcony dawn in the low twenties, colder than it’s been, with a Northern Cardinal ticking the start of the day at 7:14 AM. Storm’s coming, third in a week, but we don’t know yet if it will be rain or snow or sleet or all three.
The Merlin is back today, but the pigeons dodge it, so it flies straight out toward Bald Eagle Mt, then follows the ridgetop until it reaches the towers. It takes a few swoops around the higher one and alights on a cross-beam, the first time I’ve seen a falcon perch there. I rush in to get my tripod, but by the time I finish the set-up, it’s gone.
After an interlude with the electrician, I’m back out close to 8, and the trees are alive with starlings, robins, and House Finches, singing and calling and diving down into the fruit trees along 10th street. A veritable dawn chorus in January, in homage to the morning light and free food, I suppose.
Three male Common Mergansers show up, zooming along their customary flight path west, slightly below the Sapsucker Ridge tree line, out of the Gap and upriver. A pair of American Crows, higher up, heads east, and one is noticeable smaller than the other. I’m counting the local crows as Americans here in the winter, and I only hear them make the noises that Americans make, but I have to wonder if there aren’t a few Fish Crows about, as well.
A Red-tailed Hawk soars up out of Bald Eagle Mountain, crosses the Gap, and lands in an a ridgetop tree on Sapsucker, facing a far hollow.
The fruit feast ramps up and a boisterous trio of House Finches, a male and two females, seem particularly excited at the top of the nearest fruit tree. The male grasps a selection of grasses in its beak. Too early for nesting, this would appear to be courtship behavior, as two by two, the finches of Tyrone pair off to get ready for another marathon breeding season.
The rain comes heavy in the evening, switching to snow and back several times. By Saturday morning, still above freezing, the slush pack is much reduced, and we wallow our way up into the Greenbriar area of Sapsucker Ridge just in time to catch the winds that come howling out of the west. This doesn’t stop the dawn chorus in the deeper, sheltered woods, which starts with White-throated Sparrows at 7:10 AM, but out in the field, only a Common Raven and some crows are tough enough to take it. The rainy gale, which must be at least 40 miles an hour, hurls a lone starling over the mountain at one point.
We mill about the veranda drinking broth until eventually, the wind dies down a bit and the sun peeks out. A multiflora rose fills with the House Finch flock that arrives every day from town, and they pick hungrily at the hips. A Northern Flicker, first of 2024, calls from the old dump area, and another calls a few minutes later from Sapsucker Ridge—not a species that sticks about every January. Pileated Woodpecker cackles echo from both ridges. As usual, the yard activity reaches a sudden crescendo around eight, with every species going at once, including a single Eastern Bluebird and plenty of White-breasted Nuthatches.
We take the same way back, and for the first time in two winters I coax a shy Yellow-bellied Sapsucker out for a few seconds, as it makes a sound I’m unfamiliar with. No wonder I missed the species last winter—it is nearly impossible to locate up here.
The plowed road in the Hollow, showing bare patches, is alive with Dark-eyed Juncos. A Winter Wren calls from the recesses of a downed tree.
Squall
The back end of the week’s third storm hits us on Sunday morning. Dawn starts with thick flurries, buffeted by winds. Whiteout conditions come and ago, and I decide to strike out to the pond for one last look before the coming deep freeze locks out the ducks for a few weeks.
Ten Mallards again today, but this time, the accompanier is the American Wigeon. As I watch the ducks waddle about on land and splash in the shallow water, a “chip” sound alerts me to a small, dark bird fluttering about the dead cattails and reeds. An Eastern Phoebe has found a good spot to hang out, sheltered from the gale that is sweeping across the tracks above. A small flock of juncos also moves about the bare mud patches, feeding. In the thick of the squall, a bluebird calls, and then flies over to the pond as well. Somewhere above, an American Goldfinch cries in flight.
As the sky clears, I hear three loud call notes in quick succession, the unmistakable sound of a Red Crossbill flying over. I hesitate to call it the Appalachian-type call, as it seemed slower than the recording on Merlin, and apparently there are Western crossbills around Pennsylvania right now as well (indeed, some have even been found nesting). I missed this species last year, despite always keeping my ears fine-tuned to flyover finches. Let’s just hope some decide to stick around and feed on our conifers.
On the way back, two ravens croak and dive about the body. I discover that the deer carcass has been ripped from its spot and pivoted 90 degrees, the head now exposed to the elements. Raven tracks reveal the culprits.
As Sunday wears on, the wind becomes stronger and the temperature finally drops. Week 3 looks like the single digits, the way winters should be.